I’m wasting my life.
Hand in mine, into your icy blues
And then I’d say to you we could take to the highway
With this trunk of ammunition too
I’d end my days with you in a hail of bulletsI want this tattooed
It’s easier to let in the gloom,
the somberness of Monday morning
etched into empty coffee mugs
stains on white porcelain, yellow teeth
gnash and gnaw.
hunger is my chronic illness
Fill in the muddled canvas
grotesque boons of last night’s fury
paint and pull the dark corners
until the room is nothing but
shadows and sickness, blood
wells and welts skin.
She never listens,
just hides away.
I’d rather waste everyday with you
Feathery flighty eyelashes frame the corners of my mind
Wide apart, softly blinking, opening like a flower in July
Revealing the essence of my smile, the sweetness of hope
Like honey, summer thunder, stickier than humid nights
Your eyes loosen my thoughts, like a strong stout draught
Stripping secrets, warming fingers, keeping my skin clean
The way they delve so deep into my soul, I no longer feel
I keep roses pressed between pages, a reminder of silkiness the feel of freshly washed chestnut hair between my fingers, and their pink petals a sweetness, like strawberry preserve that stains porcelain cheek bones during summer. I keep roses dried on my walls, crinkly and tender, like butterfly wings or brown eyelashes fluttering against my lips, faded into a deep maroon, the colour of my sheets that he holds me close in during sunset and sunrise, the colour of an impregnable fortress.
I keep one besides my curly head, tinged deep dedication, a persistent crimson hue, the first flower brought without need or cause, adorning the mantle of my heart with summer smiles and winter whispers. I keep roses alight on my breast, cherishing their giver who pulls on my heart strings like a musician a harp, always he plays me a sweet simple tune.
Our fingers intertwine
Like puzzle pieces, your hand fits perfectly in mine.